Weep Not
by pensive puddles
Summary: I'm a liar. She always hated it when I lied. Now she hates me...' Death took the life of a small girl. But Death didn't know it also took the soul of another


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything that could make me insanely rich. 

Summary: After the war starting at the end of Harry's sixth year, brief battles were fought and both sides lost men and women. Now, with the death of a girl, a boy walks through her room, remembering. Sometimes death doesn't take the life of only one person; it can take the soul of another.

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Weep Not

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By Pensive Puddles

The door opened. The door closed. He was now trapped inside.

He looked sadly around him, looking at the things his love had left behind. 

A cheery room, even when he knew she was no longer there to smile at him while she was perched on her bed covered in a multitude of pillows, papers and opened books scattered around her.

The walls were bright, a soft brightness, a merry brightness. The colors of pink, blue and green reminded him of the spring, her favorite month. Everything in her room had to resemble or led him to think of spring. Spring, the season of her death. She probably wouldn't have had it any other way.

He walked around her room, not sure where to go but let his bare feet touch the coolness of her mossy carpet. He touched the books on her shelf. She had always kept them neat and organized, always in alphabetical order. She took such pride in her books.

He looked at the pictures that were propped up in frames around her room. Smiling faces, some moving, some not, but they smiled at him. Harry, Ron, Ginny, some other kids he didn't know all stared at him with smiles on their faces. And then he came to the last and only picture of them.

How two people who loathed each other entirely could fall madly in love with each other was beyond his understanding. It made sense, in some twisted, Shakespearean way. It had just happened. They had agreed to meet during winter vacation. They had escaped to a small cabin in the country, and they had just spent three days building snowmen, having snowball fights, sledding, walking in the morning frost, then laying in front of the fire to get warm again while sharing deep or light conversations. 

There had been a village below them in the valley. They walked there. It had been there last day and she had wanted to keep the memory in her mind forever. So she insisted on a picture. 

There he stood, his arms circled around her waist and she leaning against him. It wasn't a moving photo, which was peculiar to him considering he was a wizard, yet somehow, it felt more realistic, and it felt like they were _really_ trapped in that moment. 

Her eyes shined in happiness under her blue hat. A matching blue scarf threatened to cover her warm smile. Snowflakes clung to her hair, to her eyelashes. Snowflakes were caught in motion in the picture, a beauty that could not be captured in moving photos in the Wizarding World.

He looked happy too, he observed while holding the photo trapped behind smooth glass and a delicate wooden frame she had gotten in a village store.

I'll never look that happy again, not without her near me, he thought sadly. 

It was painful to look at the picture. It reminded him of the times, the wonderful times that had left such warm strokes on his heart that he could never forget. She had healed his scars. She had given him the ability to become open-minded. 

And now she was gone. Forever gone, and he felt that he would be forever here, on this earth.

He set the picture down, resuming in his depressing stroll in her room. 

Everywhere he looked he saw her. It was unbearable. 

His face felt damp. He reached up and felt his wet skin. He pulled his hand back, surprised to see tears. He had broken his promise.

She had asked him to promise her not to cry for her. She had pleaded him, asking him to do one last thing for her. He could still remember how he could practically feel her life ebbing away, could see the warmth in her die as her eyes clouded in pain and morbid. One simple spell, one simple whisper of words and it was ripping her life and his soul away. He could still hear her soft, weak voice as she begged him to promise. He had nodded his head, promising. At that moment, he would have done anything for her to be happy, to not look in pain. She smiled at him, and died, still smiling at him with soft eyes that lost their flickering flames of life.

And now, he could imagine those eyes, those soft eyes glaring at him in anger and sadness. He had promised and he had broken it. Promises meant a lot to her.

He wiped his face, trying to rid himself of his tears. Yet it seemed the more he wiped away, the more they fell. When his hand removed one, two more replaced it. 

Frustrated and angery at himself, loss consumed him and he looked around for comfort, wishing she would appear somehow and hold him in her small arms like she used to when he was troubled.

He stumbled to her bed, pressing his face in her comforter as the tears continued to fall. If he could not stop the flow of tears, he would at least not let her hear him cry out loud, even though he was screaming inside. 

He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself. The suffocating smell of coconut banana filled his nostrils, overpowering his senses. Her scent. She always washed herself with it after he had once remarked how he liked the scent so much. She had always thought of him…

A strangled sob choked him. He coughed and the cry broke the silence of the room. His sobs, finally being released from their prisons, ambushed him, attacking him in such a rapid pace that his body shook as he cried. Tear after tear fell, sob after sob screaming. 

His arms reached around him, grabbing at the soft, golden fabric of her bed. His hand slid under her pillows and his hand closed over clothes. He pulled it out and looked at it through his blurry eyes. He held it to his nose and breathed in deeply. Her toxic scent made him tremble.

Curling in a ball, he held her nightshirt tightly to his chest. He closed his eyes that were burning in pain. Yet his heart burned with an indescribable pain that he could not control it or stop it as it ate at him. He pictured her smiling face, her beautiful angelic face and mentally reached for her, reaching to touch her and beg her to return to him. 

…*…

"In there, Headmaster," the still ever so cold voice of Professor Snape said as he pointed to the door. If one were to listen closer, one would have heard the worry woven into his voice. 

"Thank you, Severus," Dumbledore said and knocked on the mahogany door.

"Son, open up," the old man called gentle through the door. 

Silence.

Dumbledore, growing concerned, knocked again as he turned the handle. It turned and the door opened easily.

"It wasn't open before, sir," Snape said quickly.

Dumbledore just nodded absentmindedly and walked into the room. He stopped, the other Professors behind him stopping abruptly as well. A couple gasps from the women pricked the air.

"Young man," Dumbledore said. Then in a quiet, gentle voice, said, "Son…"

A thin figure lay curled in the mess of golden and red comforters that seemed to blend so perfectly with the spring decorations surrounding it. That was just the magic of Hogwarts; nothing could clash together.

The boy shivered, trembled while his gnarled hands clutched the soft bedspread. He looked up at the old Headmaster with worn, empty eyes. His was pale, paler then it's usual paleness. His eyes, once filled with life, seemed almost lifeless. Large bags accented the paleness of his face. His clothes sagged on him. It was a shock to see such a well kept student be reduced to such a pitiful state. She had only been gone for a few weeks! Tears feel unchecked down from the dull eyes.

"I promised her I wouldn't cry for her when she was gone. I promised. And I couldn't keep it! I broke it! I'm a liar. She hates me now. She always hated it when I lied. I don't want her to hate me. I don't want her dead! I want her here! I don't want to cry for her," the boy rambled hysterically, looking away from the wide, astonished eyes of his elders and curled tighter as if in pain in the middle of a large, Gryffindor decorated bed. 

Dumbledore walked quickly over to him, "Sometimes, we can't keep our promises, no matter how hard we try. She was a sensible girl. She would have understood." 

There was a long pause, as if he was contemplating what the old, wise Headmaster had said.

"I'll just have to see if she did," he whispered in a gruff voice. He looked into the old man's wise eyes that were not twinkling like they usually did. The boy's lips twittered so fast and brief that Snape wondered if he had imagined it. But Dumbledore knew he had. It was an apologetic smile, apologizing for something he would do or had done to them. 

He knew something was wrong when the young man smiled in such a manner, especially this boy. The old man looked at the morbid face of the young man. His eyes glanced at the body of the boy, and a small bottle caught his attention.

Grabbing it out of the weak fingers of the pale boy, Dumbledore looked at the empty bottle of pills. He looked at the thin figure who was staring at him with clouded eyes. The boy blinked, gasping out, "Tell Harry…and Ron…she loves them…don't cry…"

His body breathed in, his chest rising. Then it stopped abruptly and he exhaled, his spirit living with it.

"Severus, get Madam Pomfrey in here. As for the rest of you, gather the children into the Great Hall," Dumbledore ordered gravely, looking at the dead child. "Leave me."

The door closed behind him, leaving him in a dead girl's room with a dead boy.

The pale face, clouded blue eyes held such promise, such youth, knowledge gained during the seven years he had spent on his education at Hogwarts. All wasted.

"You could have been great, my boy. Yet I assume you for filled your prophecy, as we all do." Dumbledore closed the eyelids of the body still lingering in warmth. "Till we meet again. Keep her happy, as I'm sure you did when you both were alive."

Dumbledore looked at the dead body. He bowed his head and wept. He wept for the boy who never really understood the meaning of true love. He wept for the boy who had lost so much by just the disappearance of one person. He wept for the loss of yet another brilliant mind. He wept for the child he had watched grow in front of his eyes over the years. He wept of the cruelty of death, how it seemed to take everyone but him; how unfair for such an old bloke to live while fresh minds that deserved life were robbed of it so young. He wept for the boy who no one would weep from their hearts. 

Dumbledore wept for Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy.

…*….

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A/N: There's another one-shot done by me. I've got several other pieces I've been working on and trying to perfect for you, but this just popped into my head an was messing up my writing style. I was listening to Enya while reading some other stories online, and then I just imagined Draco lying on Hermione's bed, crying…

Funny how stories come to life, huh?

Explanations for those who are confused:

Hermione died in a battle. Draco and her and been lovers. Without her, it had been like his soul had been taken away and he was just a walking corpse. Draco couldn't live without her. 

And the prophecy thing…In my opinion, everyone has a prophecy that they must full fill. Hermione full filled hers by her death. And Draco for filled his by killing himself.

Anymore questions, fee free to ask in your review, just leave your email address and I'll be happy to reply and answer.

Anyway, _REVIEW_ please. That's be awesome…oh, and if you want to read another one-shot (which I know you do!) go and check out my other story _Fault_. It's angst. It's lacking reviews right now…could use a couple more…^_^


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